Page 77 of Circle of Strangers
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Today is the day.
I finish getting ready and return to the kitchen where my children are finishing breakfast.
“Guess what, guys? We’re having a special mommy day. No school today. Just us.” My smile is bright yet my eyes are empty, a marquee without a show.
Jackson’s eyes light. The kid lives for surprises.
Georgiana, more skeptical and becoming more aware by the day, tilts her head. “What about Daddy?”
“Daddy’s working late tonight. It’ll just be our little adventure. How does that sound?” I lean down and kiss her forehead, smoothing her wild locks. She shrugs but doesn’t argue as she shovels another spoonful of cereal into her mouth.
After breakfast, I pack snacks and waters into Georgiana’s pink backpack and grab Jackson’s favorite toy train. Essentials. Nothing to indicate we’re not coming back. My hands tremble as I toss Lucinda’s letters into a trash bag, the words inked in venom, their weight unbearable. As soon as we’re on the road, I plan to toss them out the window on some lonely stretch of highway—no cameras, no witnesses.
Will can’t know about those letters. Ever.
We load up as soon as the kids are done eating.
By the time I hit the first ATM, my pulse is racing. While Will showered this morning, I slipped his credit cards from his wallet and prayed to a god I’ve never believed in that he wouldn’t notice.
Today that god finally came through for me.
The camera above the keypad watches me like a hawk, but I’ve planned for this. Baseball cap, sunglasses, and hair tucked under a hoodie makes it look like I’m running—which is intentional. If and when Will gets these cash advance notifications and if and when the police pull the footage, they’ll think I’m dressed like I’m in hiding. That’s what they’ll be looking for. Not someone hiding in plain sight.
First card, $500.
Second card, another $500.
I hit four more machines before I’ve maxed out his cash advance limit. Five thousand dollars. Added to the two thousand I’ve been squirreling away, it’s enough to get us out.
Not far. But out.
The kids are blissfully unaware, playing with their tablets in the back seat as I pull into a gas station parking lot outside of East Mesa, where a rusted-out four-door 2002 Chevy Cavalier waits. The man selling it looks like he’s never met a toothbrush he liked.
“Runs great. Belonged to my grandma before she died.” The faint scent of stale cigarettes clings to his words as he marinates us both in the stench of adult male body odor.
The Facebook Marketplace ad said it had “fifty-six thousand well-maintained” miles. Low for its age. And I’ve done my homework. This model’s reliable enough.
“I’ll throw in a couple extra gallons of gas for ya.” He grins, revealing teeth that favor a picket fence after a hurricane.
I hand over the seventeen hundred in cash we agreed on over the phone yesterday afternoon, and he passes me one set of keys.
I never thought freedom would smell like nicotine, but alas, it does.
I transfer the kids into the Cavalier while they pepper me with questions.
“Why are we taking this car, Mommy?” Jackson asks.
Georgiana wrinkles her nose. “Why does it stink in here?”
“Because it’s special,” I say. “Like today.”
My daughter doesn’t buy it, but she doesn’t push. Will’s first text pings my phone as I’m buckling Jackson’s seat belt. I knew it wouldn’t take long.
Will:Where are you?
A second follows almost immediately:Call me. Now.
